


Getting used to it

by Atanih88



Series: Superbat Week 2019 [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DC Extended Universe, Justice League - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Domestic, Established Relationship, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 07:16:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19988245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atanih88/pseuds/Atanih88
Summary: Written forsuperbatweekDay 2’s prompt 'drinking a coffee'.





	Getting used to it

**Author's Note:**

> Written entirely on google docs and un-beta’d other than a few once overs by me. Hope you enjoy!

It doesn’t matter that this isn’t the first time Bruce finds himself here. This city always leaves him feeling unsettled. He’s not sure if it’s the air or the brightness of the skyscrapers even in the middle of the night. Maybe it’s that no matter what, the blanket of night never truly takes over Metropolis.

Bruce doesn’t turn on any lights; he already knows the apartment like the back of his hand. He moves quietly around the kitchen, comfortable in shadows. The kitchen only has one window, which opens out onto the fire escape. The blinds are drawn, keeping the city out.

The gurgle of the coffee machine soothes him as he takes out one of the mismatched mugs and sets it on the counter before leaning against it himself. He rubs his eyes, grinding his palms as hard as he can, though he knows from experience it doesn’t help with the grit. Exhaustion feels as if its wrapped itself around his every bone and his right knee is acting up, as is the headache pulsing at his temple.

Some of it is from lack of sleep. Some of it is his body rebelling.

Jesus, he’s tired.

It’s a testament to just how tired when he doesn’t notice that he’s no longer alone until hands curve around his waist, wide and warm. Before Bruce has even opened his eyes, those same hands slide around to his lower back and settle there, tugging him forward to rest against hot skin stretched over steel.

‘Can’t sleep again, huh.’

Clark’s words rumble in his chest and Bruce feels them where his hands have come up to brace against Clark. 

Bruce huffs. So much for sneaking out of bed.

‘Why are you up?’ Bruce asks.

Clark shrugs. ‘You’re up.’ Then Clark eases away and gets another mug. He hasn’t bothered with a shirt, just dragged on a pair of boxers that have worn so much with time that the elastic is permanently stretched and they hang from the cut of Clark’s hips. 

Not that Bruce is complaining. He appreciates the amount of skin on display. 

Clark is a beautiful man.

The scent of coffee fills the space between them, hot and comforting. ‘Though having coffee probably isn’t the best way to try and get yourself to sleep, Bruce,’ Clark says.

‘I won’t sleep anyway.’ Bruce takes the mug Clark holds out.

It figures that even in the dark, Bruce can make out Clark with ease. Light seems to seek Clark out wherever he is.

‘You wanna talk about it?’ Clark asks.

‘Nothing to talk about.’

‘Right.’ But Clark doesn’t push, just finds a spot next to Bruce, arm pressed to Bruce’s.

The coffee floods Bruce’s tongue, black and bitter. It definitely has nothing on Alfred’s coffee but Bruce has gotten used to it now. He’s started getting used to a lot of things. Like regular nights spent on Clark’s shitty bed. Bruce guesses the springs don’t matter as much to Clark but they sure as shit matter to Bruce’s ageing back.

They drink their coffee in silence as the clock above the kitchen ticks away the night, watching each other.

Clark finishes his and goes to the sink, quietly washes and rinses it and leaves it to dry. He rests his hands on the sink as he turns to watch Bruce finish his own, that sky blue gaze tracking down Bruce’s throat, past Bruce’s chest and legs to land on Bruce’s bare feet.

‘I like you like this,’ Clark says.

‘Like what?’ Bruce finishes his own coffee and hands the mug over when Clark reaches for it. 

He watches Clark wash it too, how careful Clark is. Not that anyone would ever be able to tell. There are very few people on the planet who understand just how much control Clark Kent has to exert every second of his life to keep from destroying every day things. 

‘Here,’ Clark says, ‘I like you here, Bruce.’ Clark sets Bruce’s mug besides his and reaches for the dishtowel, turning to Bruce as he wipes his hands. 

It still stuns Bruce, how quick Clark is to touch, to reach out first. Clark wraps himself around Bruce so they’re skin on skin and nuzzles at Bruce’s jawline.

‘I can help you sleep,’ Clark says.

‘Really.’ Bruce tilts his head up, just a fraction, arching an eyebrow.

Clark smiles and presses a kiss to the corner of Bruce’s mouth, slides his hands down low and settles them over Bruce’s ass. Clark grinds forward and squeezes. ‘Really.’

Bruce snorts.

He lets Clark take his hand and drag him back to the bedroom and its shitty mattress.

Bruce gets one and a half hours of solid sleep and he can just about hide the limp in his step when he leaves Clark’s place later that morning.

The Metropolis morning isn’t even that irritating.

And maybe, just maybe, Bruce admits to himself that he doesn’t mind the chance to get used to all of this.

Maybe Bruce doesn’t mind it at all.


End file.
